


Heart of the Matter

by AndAllMannerofThings



Series: Fallen London [2]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 06:49:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13875447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndAllMannerofThings/pseuds/AndAllMannerofThings
Summary: Mr. Hearts, bored of its monotonous life, tries to live a day as an ordinary citizen of Fallen London. It... doesn't work very well.





	Heart of the Matter

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr

Isabelle Aveni - former Lieutenant in Her Majesty’s army; veteran of 68’; world-class costomonger specialising in all things edible (and a few that perhaps  _ aren’t _ ) - likes to think of herself as a woman that isn’t surprised easily. She’s fought Devils (with a bayonet!), sailed the Zee (with a real ship, steam engines and all!), died no less than ten times (how many of those snobs on the Surface can say  _ that? _ ), and she’s become a master of peddling vegetables in Spite (an experience more harrowing than the previous three put together).

Despite this storied background, Isabelle has to admit one thing: She is more than a little stunned when she looks up from her morning paper to find a Master of the Bazaar standing in front of her cart, staring down at her with bright eyes that seem to glow in the absence of gaslight. It’s robes are hidden beneath a massive suit made of Parabola linen. It’s hood is crowned with a bonnet decorated with paper lilies and sunflowers. The clacking sound that appears as it shuffles towards her suggests an approximation of nailed boots are worn on its feet.

“Good morning,” she says politely, because she has absolutely no idea what one is supposed to do in this situation.

“Good morning,” it replies in a shrieking, glass-shattering voice. It tips its bonnet at her in a mockery of proper British decorum.

Isabelle looks around wildly, finding that a large squad of Special Constables have formed a circle around the Master, preventing any traffic from moving down either side of the street. The usual cacophony of Spite’s crowds has vanished in favor of hushed whispers and curious glances.

A Special Constable locks eyes with Isabelle and twitches his moustache in an expressive manner that says, “Pay attention.”

Isabelle looks back to the Master and cranes her head in order to meet its too-high eyes. “Can I help you?”

Though Isabelle cannot see the Master’s face under its hood, she is under the distinct impression that it is smiling at her in a disconcertingly joyful way. “I suppose you can! I am told that you are one of the more reliably adequate food vendors in London.”

Isabelle exchanges another glance with the moustached Special Constable. “Don’t ask,” he twitches.

She looks back up at the Master and puts on her best smile. It feels fake over her mouth. “O-of course I am! My goods are the finest this side of the river!”

The Master purrs in a way that sounds almost, but not quite, like the exact opposite of how a purr should sound. “I’ll be the judge of that!” It extends a gloved claw and plucks a mushroom from the top of Isabelle’s carefully arranged pile. “What is this?”

“A mushroom,” Isabelle answers uselessly.

“I can  _ see  _ that,” the Master says, just as cheerfully as before. “I mean, what is  _ this? _ ” The Master angles the mushroom towards her and taps the tip of a finger on a blemish the size of an ant.

Isabelle gulps. “It’s a bruise, sir- uh, mada- uh, milord?”

The Master nods sagely, as though it hadn’t just asked her for clarification. “Ah. I assume that this does not lower the quality of the product? It has been so long since I’ve concerned myself things as unimportant as these.” It leans down to her, and Isabelle can feel the heat of its breath on the tip of her nose. “Would you eat a mushroom such as this?”

Isabelle wonders if it would be a good time to leg it. The twinkle in the Master’s eyes tells her that fleeing would be unwise. “Uh? Yes?”

“Ah. And these are suitable for being eaten raw?” It waves its free hand towards the rest of the produce on sale.

“Yes? I mean, you should probably boil the lichen a bit to be safe?”

“Ah.”

“Ah?”

“Ah.”

The Master plops the mushroom back onto the pile and glides its fingers over a sample of lichen. “Hm. How much?”

Isabelle feels her confidence return in the same way as an unpleasant memory surfaces when one is drunk: unpleasantly fast. “For the mushroom?”

“For everything on the cart.” It ponders for a moment. “And the cart as well.”

Isabelle does not answer at first, for her mind is too busy racing with images of stacks of echoes and bottles of wine.  _ Lots  _ of wine. “Are you... quite sure?”

The Master chuckles. It’s an evil noise somewhere between a pained scream and a vicious growl. Isabelle feels her teeth grind upon hearing it. Somewhere further down the road, an Urchin collapses from his perch in terror. A small dog keels over. An old dowager faints into a shop window, punctuating her fall with the crunch of broken glass.

“I’m sure,” the Master says with the glee of a sadistic mother-in-law. It reaches into its frock and removes a wallet the size of a zubmarine. “How much?”

Isabelle calculates a number that is large enough to insure she won’t have to work for several weeks while still remaining small enough to insure that she won’t be mistaken for being greedy.

The Master takes out a few echoes and sighs melodramatically. “I’m afraid I don’t have that much cash on hand. Would you accept a little bit of trade?”

Isabelle knows better than to disagree with a giant bat-thing in a suit, so she nods eagerly. “Of course.”

In response, the Master reaches further into its frock and removes a wet sack the size of a baptist’s head. It smells worse than Bugsby’s Marsh, and looks twice as wet as the Zee. “Here you go!”

Isabelle opens the bag, and she is greeted by a sight that would’ve sent a less secure mind straight to the Royal Bethlehem.

The Master clasps its hands together eaagerly in a childish display of anticipation. “Well?”

Isabelle makes a mental note to down a bottle of laudanum as soon as she gets home. “It’s... fragrant.”

“Ha! It is.” The bloody thing  _ winks  _ at her. “I made it special last night!”

“Why?” It is less a question and more a defiant refusal to understand.

“I was bored and wanted to experiment a little with spices and live beetles.”

“Thank you,” she says, pale as a sheet. “Thank you so much.”

“The pleasure is all mine, my delicious friend.” The Master presses the echoes into Isabelle’s outstretched hand and grabs her cart roughly. “Have a fantastic day!” It wheels the cart down the street and vanishes from view.

The moustached Special Constable twitches sympathetically before following suit, leaving Isabelle standing in the middle of the street holding a chunk of  _ something  _ and a fistful of echoes.

She shrugs, and makes for the nearest bar.

***

Father McKenzie is a man of God, and that means he is a man of compassion, patience, and understanding.

All three of those qualities are put to the test when a Master wearing a glowing suit and a flower hat stomps through his church’s door and makes a beeline straight for the confessional. It makes to sit down inside, but quickly finds that the little structure is far too small to hold it. Instead, it opts to stand awkwardly with its bonnet in its hands.

Father McKenzie moves through the swathe of rapidly departing church-goers and stands beside the confessional, under the shadow cast by his statuesque visitor.

He clears his throat. “Er, hello.”

The Master regards him as though he were a curious animal in the Labyrinth. “Greetings, priest.”

A few seconds of unbearable silence pass as Father McKenzie tries to find a way to express his feelings diplomatically. “I, uh, must say that I’ve never had the...  _ pleasure...  _ of seeing one of your kind in a place of worship.”

“That’s because your faith’s notions of how the universe works are so hilariously wrong that I am right now struggling to contain myself.”

If a regular citizen had dared to make such comments in a house of God, Father McKenzie would have given him a tongue lashing of a lifetime. However, he decides that discretion is the better part of valour. “May I ask, then, why you are here?”

“I want to understand the people of London, dear priest. I want to know why they are the way they are. Religion is a part of that. You will help me.”

Father McKenzie sees an opportunity to escape, and he tries to seize it. “I much rather think it would be better to speak to one of the Bishops, if you want an in-depth expla-”

The Master raises a hand, striking his words from the air. “I tried. Fiacre’s gave me the slip and disappeared into the Flit when I tried to pursue. Southwark shot me in the chest. I suppose climbing in through his bedroom window probably gave him a bit of a scare. That leaves you as my lucky teacher!” The Master gestures towards the confessional. “People find comfort in confessing to all sorts of sins, yes?”

“Well, yes? It’s an opportunity to seek absolu-”

“Great!” The Master grabs McKenzie’s shoulder and shoves him into the confessional. “We shall begin right away! It is has been over four thousand years since my last confession!”

Father McKenzie yelps as the back of his smashes into the hardwood of the confessional, and then he starts to slip into unconsciousness.

“Oh, damn it, you’re all so fragile,” the Master mumbles as he slips into that good night.

***

“Alright lads, listen up,” Foreman Cartwright announces to the gathered dockers around him. “We got ourselves a new man for today’s work.”

Ira groans. Great. A new lad. No doubt an Urchin kicked out of a gang for getting too old. Or a drunkard from Watchmaker’s Hill trying to scrape together enough change for more gin. Or, Salt have mercy, a  _ poet  _ slumming for  _ inspiration.  _ Ira grits his teeth. He f---in’  _ hates  _ poets, what with their fancy-schmancy  _ words  _ and  _ simileez  _ and  _ meti-fors. _

“Boss, we don’t need no idiot just cause Jakey’s sick with the Parlour Pox,” Ira moans. “New sot would just get in our way.”

Cartwright rolls his eyes hard enough to pop ‘em out of his skull. “It’s not up to me. Fires himself told me to hire them. Supposed to speed up production, somehow.” He taps his clipboard impatiently. “Get yourselves to work, now. Ships don’t build themselves.”

Ira and his mates grumble halfheartedly and make their way to the dry dock they’ve been working at for the last month. They stop in their tracks when they find a massive hooded figure dressed in comically large overalls and a ratty peacoat hunched over a box of tools.

“What the bloody f---,” Ira says to no-one in particular.

“The bloody f---,” another docker repeats.

“‘Ello,  _ zailors _ ,” the figure chimes amicably. It stands up, revealing a fake beard dangling from its hood and a hook protruding from one of its sleeves. “How goez it, one zee dog to another?”

Ira exchanges glances with his mates. They don’t know what to make of it either.

“Who the hell are you?” Ira demands.

“Yargh,” it says, waving its hook around flamboyantly. “Me be ye new lad for the day. Me name’z One-Eyed Barebonez.”

Ira wonders for a moment if he somehow accidentally took a spoon of honey before he came in for work. Probably not.  _ Probably. _

“You’re a Master,” a docker exclaims, showcasing a deductive mind that rivals the greatest detectives over on Ladybones Road.

“Ha!” The Master takes a step forward. Ira and his mates all take two steps back. “Ye muzt be pulling me leg! I’m juzt a zailor, like all of you!”

Ira’s mind begins a long and epic journey through all of his memories. After almost a minute of searching through childhood escapades and adult regrets, he comes to the conclusion that yes, this just might be the single strangest day of his life.

“Do you know anything about how to build a ship?” Ira asks.

“I have flown acrozz the void between ztarz,” One-Eyed Barebonez responds in a booming voice that is an almost perfect match for Fires’, “I have zeen worldz the likez of which you can’t even imagine. I have lived longer than any of you mere humanz can ever hope to.”

“That’s all jolly well and good,” Ira replies, scratching his beard. “But do you know how to build a ship?”

One-Eyed Barebonez raises a finger and makes ready to speak, but no words come out. It lowers its gaze to the wood beneath their feet. “No,” it admits, very, very quietly.

“I thought so.” Ira turns to his mates and shrugs. “Guess we better get started then.”

***

One-Eyed Barebonez, despite being incredibly terrifying, is a fine mate as far as Ira is concerned. It’s a quick learner, stronger than a dozen men put together, and it’s presence kept the usual packs of mettling Urchins at bay. Oh, it had its share of problems, no mistake. It couldn’t sing a shanty to save its life, and then there was the problem with its lunch...

“Do ye want zome?” it asks Ira, offering a hunk of meat. A bone protruded from the meat. It looked like a rib. Ira was not overly enthused about finding out the origins of the rib.

“No. I’m not hungry anymore,” Ira says, hastily wrapping his sandwich back up. “Excuse me a moment.”

“Yargh, ye ain’t getting zoft on me, are ye?” Ira didn’t have the heart to tell it that nobody, zailor or not, actually used yarghs and yes.

“No, no, I just gotta... go for a sec.” Ira stands up and walks a grand total of twenty feet where a few of his fellow workers are huddled in a circle.

“Well,” Ira says, butting into the middle of the circle, “any clues as to which one it is?”

“Not Pages,” Mike answers. “Talks to sensible like.” He pauses. “I mean, he don’t make words up and what not.”

“Maybe it’s Iron,” Jim adds. Ira hates when Jim tries to add.

“You gone daft? Iron don’t speak,” Ira snaps. “And if it were Iron, do you really think it’d be pretending to be a pirate from a kid’s book?”

“Shuddup,” Jim cleverly counters. “You got any better ideas?”

“Maybe it’s-” Ira starts.

“Yargh, why ye be wazting time gozzipping like old women?” One-Eyed Barebonez asks, clapping Ira on the back with his bloodstained hook. “Break time be over!” It shuffles away to the work site, leaving Ira and his mates staring after.

“F--- me,” Ira says with a shiver. The blood on his back soaks through onto his skin. “I’m gonna have to burn this shirt.”

***

As the gas lamps were snuffed for the night, a light rain began to freckle the windows of the Singing Mandrake. Catherine smiles from her seat in the back corner of the main room - she missed the Surface so, and every little raindrop held a thousand memories from a lifetime ago - and she tries to put pen to paper again.

Unfortunately, the words don’t come, just like an acceptance letter from a publisher. After a fruitless hour of scribbled ideas and torn pages, Catherine lets out a sigh and resigns herself to waiting for another day to actually write something.

Even  _ more  _ unfortunately, a fellow in a shabby tailcoat wearing a tie as a bandana has jumped on top of a table near Catherine’s, and he’s starting to holler jokes to everybody who cares to listen. Catherine can feel the headache starting to swell by her temples. She simply cannot fathom why these poseur aresholes with their awful setups and lame punchlines only perform their shenanigans when she’s present. All she wanted was a calm night among like-minded artists, and now she has to listen to this fool completely butcher a perfectly fine joke about a scandalous clergyman.

A peal of laughter erupts from a few inebriated artists in the center of the crowd, which only serves to encourage the would-be comedian more. “Alright, alright, I got one for you all!” He is convinced that he is wanted, and that means he won’t leave no matter how much Catherine could beg him.

Catherine gathers her things and finishes her glass of wine. She doesn’t have to stay here and listen to somebody shriek with laughter at their own bad jokes. Her wife is more than capable of providing that service in a significantly less irritating manner.

“How does one distinguish a Master of the Bazaar from a barrel of sheep urine?” the jokester asks the crowd. A few people ooh and aah at his audacity. “It’s quite simple, you merely-”

The main door of the Mandrake is thrown open by a Master of the Bazaar garbed in a garish dress stitched together from every sort of material. Catherine’s breath catches in her throat. The entire establishment falls silent. The jokester stops mid-sentence.

The Master takes another few steps inside, and wipes rain off of its hood. A wanted thief sitting at the bar lets out a yelp and dives behind the counter, knocking over a row of bottles in the process. The resulting crash is all the more deafening in the quiet of the Mandrake.

“By all means, delicious friend,” the Master says happily, bowing its head towards the unfortunate soul, “continue.”

“I, uh, just remembered that I have an appointment to, um, go to, actually.”

“Nonsense!” The Master grabs a spare chair and sits down, legs crossed. “It’s just one joke. I want to hear the end!”

The jokester licks his lips. “I meant no offense, good sir.”

“That’s great! Finish. The. Joke.”

The jokester takes a few shakey breathes and balls his hands into fists. “Well, you see, the sheep urine-”

“Yes.”

“-smells... bad-”

“Yes. It does.”

“-and the Masters... are-”

“Yes!”

“-are - are-”

“Yes!”

The poor young man jumps off the table and sprints through the back exit, shrieking all the while. He smacks his head on a low-hanging beam and collapses into a pile of discarded newspapers.

The Master hums to itself curiously. “I’m afraid I don’t get that one. Can someone explain it to me?”

Strangely enough, no-one - least of all Catherine - cares to educate the Master in how one is supposed to tell the difference between it and a barrel of sheep urine.

“Hmm. I guess none of you get it either. Whelp. This is awkward.” Catherine agrees wholeheartedly, and she edges towards the door, only stopping when the Master turns its glowing eyes to her. “Sit down, delicious friend. I propose a toast.”

Catherine sits back down at her table and grabs her glass with rigid fingers. A nonplussed member of the Mandrake’s waitstaff hands the Master a bottle of their finest gin and soon everyone, Catherine included, has their glasses raised in the air.

“To London!” the Master cries obnoxiously. It’s nasally voice has officially beaten Nails on a Chalkboard for the coveted Most Annoying Sound Award.

“To London!” everyone cries in return. Catherine mimes drinking from her empty glass and she again attempts to leave. Once again, the Master glares at her. “I’m not finished, delicious friend. To the Bazaar!”

“To the Bazaar!” everyone echoes.

“To the Dragons of Time!” the Master cheers.

“To... the... what?” a majority of the crowd mumbles.

“Nevermind that,” the Master says, tossing its bottle of gin over its shoulder. “It’s so good to see that the people of London aren’t afraid to treat my brethren and I with camaraderie and hospitality.”

Somehow, Catherine is certain beyond any measure of doubt that the Master is speaking about her. “Indeed sir,” she says as confidently as possible. “We are all... so happy to see you enjoying... the best this city has to offer.”

The Master is elated. It stands, strides towards Catherine and opens its arms wide. For one  _ unbearably  _ long instant, Catherine is petrified at the idea that the thing might be moving to embrace her. Instead, it grasps one of her hands with its too-long fingers and gives it a firm shake.

“If you should ever find yourself in the Labyrinth of Tigers,” it says, “please, stop by my shop, and I shall prepare for you the finest steak you will ever taste in your life.”

Catherine makes a mental note to never enter the Labyrinth again for as long as she lives. She returns the handshake and bows her head. “You’re too kind, sir.”

The Master laughs politely. “I am, aren’t I? Good evening London. Business calls.” With that said, the Master lopes out to the rainy streets, mismatched dress trailing on the ground.

“I bloody hate this city, so much,” Catherine remarks to no one in particular.


End file.
